did. I found myself unable to believe, yet always thought that

I should one day be brought to do so. You suffered more than I have done, before you believed these truths; but our sufferings, though different in their kind and measure, were directed to the same end. I hope he has taught me that, which he teaches none but his own. I hope so. These things were foolishness to me once, but now I have a firm foundation, and am satisfied."

In the evening, when I went to bid him good night, he looked stedfastly in my face, and, with great solemnity in his air and manner, taking me by the hand, resumed the discourse in these very words: "As empty, and yet full; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things--I see the rock upon which I once split, and I see the rock of my salvation. I have peace in myself, and if I live I hope it will be that I may be made a messenger of peace to others. I have learned _that_ in a moment, which I could not have learned by reading many books for many years. I have often studied these points, and studied them with great attention, but was blinded by prejudice; and, unless He, who alone is worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the book to me, I had been blinded still. Now they appear so plain, that though I am convinced no comment could ever have made me understand them, I wonder I did not see them before. Yet, great as my doubts and difficulties were, they have only served to pave the way, and being solved they make it plainer. The light I have received comes late, but it is a comfort to me that I never made the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. Though I dissented from the persuasion and the ways of God's people, I ever thought them respectable, and therefore not proper to be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the consequence of my descent from the corrupt original stock, and of my own personal transgressions; the good I enjoy comes to me as the overflowing of his bounty; but the crown of all his mercies is this, that he has given me a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of mankind, brother, but _my_ Saviour.

"I should delight to see the people at Olney, but am not worthy to appear amongst them." He wept at speaking these words, and repeated them with emphasis. "I should rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. Newton, and, if I live, shall have much discourse with him upon these subjects, but am so weak in body, that at present I could not bear it." At the same time he gave me to understand, that he had been five years inquiring after the truth, that is, from the time of my first visit to him after I left St. Albans, and that, from the very day of his ordination, which was ten years ago, he had been dissatisfied with his own views of the gospel, and sensible of their defect and obscurity; that he had always had a sense of the importance of the ministerial charge, and had used to consider himself accountable for his doctrine no less than his practice; that he could appeal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that time, and had never wilfully erred, but always been desirous of coming to the knowledge of the truth. He added, that the moment when he sent forth that cry[767] was the moment when light was darted into his soul; that he had thought much about these things in the course of his illness, but never till that instant was able to understand them.

[767] On the 10th of March, vide supra.

It was remarkable that, from the very instant when he was first enlightened, he was also wonderfully strengthened in body, so that from the tenth to the fourteenth of March we all entertained hopes of his recovery. He was himself very sanguine in his expectations of it, but frequently said that his desire of recovery extended no farther than his hope of usefulness; adding, "Unless I may live to be an instrument of good to others, it were better for me to die now."

As his assurance was clear and unshaken, so he was very sensible of the goodness of the Lord to him in that respect. On the day when his eyes were opened, he turned to me, and, in a low voice, said, "What a mercy it is to a man in my condition to _know_ his acceptance! I am completely satisfied of mine." On another occasion, speaking to the same purpose, he said, "This bed would be a bed of misery, and it is so--but it is likewise a bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to die this night, I know I should be happy. This assurance I hope is quite consistent with the word of God. It is built upon a sense of my own utter insufficiency, and the all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time he said, "Brother, I have been building my glory upon a sandy foundation; I have laboured night and day to perfect myself in things of no profit; I have sacrificed my health to these pursuits, and am now suffering the consequence of my misspent labour. But how contemptible do the writers I once highly valued now appear to me! 'Yea, doubtless, I count all things loss and dung for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord.' I must now go to a new school. I have many things to learn. I succeeded in my former pursuits. I wanted to be highly applauded, and I was so. I was flattered up to the height of my wishes: now, I must learn a new lesson."

On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, "What comfort have I in this bed, miserable as I seem to be! Brother, I love to look at you. I see now who was right, and who was mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such a dispensation should be necessary to enforce what seems so very plain. I wish myself at Olney; you have a good river there, better than all the rivers of Damascus. What a scene is passing before me! Ideas upon these subjects crowd upon me faster than I can give them utterance. How plain do many texts appear, to which, after consulting all the commentators, I could hardly affix a meaning; and now I have their true meaning without any comment at all. There is but one key to the New Testament; there is but one interpreter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall ever be able to describe, what I felt in the moment when it was given to me. May I make a good use of it! How I shudder when I think of the danger I have just escaped! I had made up my mind upon these subjects, and was determined to hazard all upon the justness of my own opinions."

Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been followed night and day from the very beginning of it with this text: _I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord_. This notice was fulfilled to him, though not in such a sense as my desires of his recovery prompted me to put upon it. His remarkable amendment soon appeared to be no more than a present supply of strength and spirits, that he might be able to speak of the better life which God had given him, which was no sooner done than he relapsed as suddenly as he had revived. About this time he formed a purpose of receiving the sacrament, induced to it principally by a desire of setting his seal to the truth, in presence of those who were strangers to the change which had taken place in his sentiments. It must have been administered to him by the Master of the College, to whom he designed to have made this short declaration, "If I die, I die in the belief of the doctrines of the Reformation, and of the Church of England, as it was at the time of the Reformation." But, his strength declining apace, and his pains becoming more severe, he could never find a proper opportunity of doing it. His experience was rather peace than joy, if a distinction may be made between joy and that heartfelt peace which he often spoke of in the most comfortable terms; and which he expressed by a heavenly smile upon his countenance under the bitterest bodily distress. His words upon this subject once were these--"How wonderful is it that God should look upon man, especially that he should look upon _me_! Yet he sees me, and takes notice of all that I suffer. I see him too; he is present before me, and I hear him say, _Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest_." Matt. xi. 28.

On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, I perceived that the strength and spirits which had been afforded him were suddenly withdrawn, so that by the next day his mind became weak, and his speech roving and faltering. But still, at intervals, he was enabled to speak of divine things with great force and clearness. On the evening of the fifteenth, he said, "'There is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance.' That text has been sadly misunderstood by me as well as by others. Where is that just person to be found? Alas! what must have become of me, if I had died this day se'nnight? What should I have had to plead? My own righteousness! _That_ would have been of great service to me, to be sure. Well, whither next? Why, to the mountains to fall upon us, and to the hills to cover us. I am not duly thankful for the mercy I have received. Perhaps I may ascribe some part of my insensibility to my great weakness of body. I hope at least that if I was better in health, it would be better with me in these respects also."

The next day, perceiving that his understanding began to suffer by the extreme weakness of his body, he said, "I have been vain of my understanding and of my acquirements in this place; and now God has made me little better than an idiot, as much as to say, now be proud if you can. Well, while I have any senses left, my thoughts will be poured out in the praise of God. I have an interest in Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise him? When my understanding fails me quite, as I think it will soon, then he will pity my weakness."

Though the Lord intended that his warfare should be short, yet a warfare he was to have, and to be exposed to a measure of conflict with his own corruptions. His pain being extreme, his powers of recollection much impaired, and the Comforter withholding for a season his sensible support, he was betrayed into a fretfulness and impatience of spirit which had never been permitted to show itself before. This appearance alarmed me, and, having an opportunity afforded me by everybody's absence, I said to him, "You were happier last Saturday than you are to-day. Are you entirely destitute of the consolations you then spoke of? And do you not sometimes feel comfort flowing into your heart from a sense of your acceptance with God?" He replied, "Sometimes I do, but sometimes I am left to desperation." The same day, in the evening, he said, "Brother, I believe you are often uneasy, lest what lately passed should come to nothing." I replied by asking him, whether, when he found his patience and his temper fail, he endeavoured to pray for power against his corruptions? He answered, "Yes, a thousand times in a day. But I see myself odiously vile and wicked. If I die in this illness, I beg you will place no other inscription over me than such as may just mention my name and the parish where I was minister; for that I ever had a being, and what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon forgot. I was just beginning to be a deist, and had long desired to be so; and I will own to you what I never confessed before, that my function and the duties of it were a weariness to me which I could not bear. Yet, wretched creature and beast as I was, I was esteemed religious, though I lived without God in the world." About this time, I reminded him of the account of Janeway, which he once read at my desire. He said he had laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted it mere madness and folly. "Yet base as I am," said he, "I have no doubt now but God has accepted me also, and forgiven me all my sins."

I then asked him what he thought of my narrative?[768] He replied, "I thought it strange, and ascribed much of it to the state in which you had been. When I came to visit you in London, and found you in that deep distress, I would have given the universe to have administered some comfort to you. You may remember that I tried every method of doing it. When I found that all my attempts were vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. I began to consider your sufferings as a judgment upon you, and my inability to alleviate them as a judgment upon myself. When Mr. M.[769] came, he succeeded in a moment. This surprised me; but it does not surprise me now. He had the key to your heart, which I had not. That which filled me with disgust against my office as a minister, was the same ill success which attended me in my own parish. There I endeavoured to soothe the afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warning and reproof; but all that I could say in either case was spoken to the wind, and attended with no effect."

[768] Cowper's Memoir of Himself.

[769] The Rev. Martin Madan.

There is that in the nature of salvation by grace, when it is truly and experimentally known, which prompts every person to think himself the most extraordinary instance of its power. Accordingly, my brother insisted upon the precedence in this respect; and, upon comparing his case with mine, would by no means allow my deliverance to have been so wonderful as his own. He observed that, from the beginning, both his manner of life and his connexions had been such as had a natural tendency to blind his eyes, and to confirm and rivet his prejudices against the truth. Blameless in his outward conduct, and having no open immorality to charge himself with, his acquaintance had been with men of the same stamp, who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised the doctrines of the cross. Such were all who, from his earliest days, he had been used to propose to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not to go farther back, such was the clergyman under whom he received the first rudiments of his education; such was the schoolmaster, under whom he was prepared for the University; and such were all the most admired characters there, with whom he was most ambitious of being connected. He lamented the dark and Christless condition of the place, where learning and morality were all in all, and where, if a man was possessed of these qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor did any body else question, the safety of his state. He concluded, therefore, that to show the fallacy of such appearances, and to root out the prejudices which long familiarity with them had fastened upon his mind, required a more than ordinary exertion of divine power, and that the grace of God was more clearly manifested in such a work than in the conversion of one like me, who had no outside righteousness to boast of, and who, if I was ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so desperately prejudiced against it.

His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to this subject, when, one afternoon, while I was writing by the fire-side, he thus addressed himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster. "Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, and I will tell you how I have spent them. When I was a boy, they taught me Latin; and because I was the son of a gentleman, they taught me Greek. These I learned under a sort of private tutor; at the age of fourteen, or thereabouts, they sent me to a public school, where I learned more Latin and Greek, and, last of all, to this place, where I have been learning more Latin and Greek still. Now has not this been a blessed life, and much to the glory of God?" Then directing his speech to me, he said, "Brother, I was going to say I was born in such a year; but I correct myself: I would rather say, in such a year I came into the world. You know when I was born."

As long as he expected to recover, the souls committed to his care were much upon his mind. One day, when none was present but myself, he prayed thus:--"O Lord, thou art good; goodness is thy very essence, and thou art the fountain of wisdom. I am a poor worm, weak and foolish as a child. Thou hast entrusted many souls unto me; and I have not been able to teach them, because I knew thee not myself. Grant me ability, O Lord, for I can do nothing without thee, and give me grace to be faithful."

In a time of severe and continual pain, he smiled in my face, and said, "Brother, I am as happy as a king." And, the day before he died, when I asked him what sort of a night he had had, he replied, a "sad night, not a wink of sleep." I said, "Perhaps, though, your mind has been composed, and you have been enabled to pray?" "Yes," said he, "I have endeavoured to spend the hours in the thoughts of God and prayer; I have been much comforted, and all the comfort I got came to me in this way."

The next morning I was called up to be witness of his last moments. I found him in a deep sleep, lying perfectly still, and seemingly free from pain. I stayed with him till they pressed me to quit the room, and in about five minutes after I had left him he died; sooner, indeed, than I expected, though for some days there had been no hopes of his recovery. His death at that time was rather extraordinary; at least, I thought it so; for, when I took leave of him the night before, he did not seem worse or weaker than he had been, and, for aught that appeared, might have lasted many days; but the Lord, in whose sight the death of his saints is precious, cut short his sufferings, and gave him a speedy and peaceful departure.

He died at seven in the morning, on the 20th of March, 1770.

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random, without honour, hope, or peace. From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, oh! thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts Thyself the crown. Give what thou canst, without Thee we are poor, And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.

_The Task_, book v.

* * * * *

The fraternal love and piety of Cowper are beautifully illustrated in this most interesting document. No sooner had he experienced the value of religion, and its inward peace and hope, in his own heart, than he feels solicitous to communicate the blessing to others. True piety is always diffusive. It does not, like the sordid miser, hoard up the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is enriched by giving, and impoverished only by withholding.

Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace, Our country next, and next all human race.

The prejudices of his brother, and yet his mild and amiable spirit of forbearance; the zeal of Cowper, and its final happy result, impart to this narrative a singular degree of interest. Others would have been deterred by apparent difficulties; but true zeal is full of faith, as well as of love, and does not contemplate man's resistance but God's mighty power.

The example of John Cowper furnishes also a remarkable evidence that a man may be distinguished by the highest endowments of human learning, and yet be ignorant of that knowledge which is emphatically called life eternal.

The distinction between the knowledge that is derived from books and the wisdom that cometh from above, is drawn by Cowper with a happy and just discrimination.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion--knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 'Till smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

_The Task_, book vi.

It is important to know how far the powers of human reason extend in matters of religion, and where they fail. Reason can examine the claims of a divine revelation, and determine its authority by the most conclusive arguments. It can expose error, and establish the truth; attack infidelity within its own entrenchments, and carry its victorious arms into the very camp of the enemy. It can defend all the outworks of religion, and vindicate its insulted majesty. But at this point its powers begin to fail. It cannot confer a _spiritual_ apprehension of the truth in the understanding, nor a _spiritual_ reception of it in the heart. This is the province of grace. "No man knoweth the things of God, but the Spirit of God, _and he to whom the Spirit hath revealed them_." "Not by might, nor by power, _but by my Spirit_, saith the Lord." Men of learning endeavour to attain to the knowledge of divine things, in the same manner as they acquire an insight into human things, that is, by human power and human teaching. Whereas divine things require a divine power and divine teaching. "All thy children shall be taught of God." Not that human reason is superseded in its use. Man is always a rational and moral agent. But it is reason, conscious of its own weakness, simple in its views, and humble in its spirit, enlightened, guided, and regulated in all its researches by the grace and wisdom that is from above. John Cowper expresses the substance of this idea in the following emphatic words:--"I have learned _that_ in a moment, which I could not have learned by reading many books for many years. I have often studied these points, and studied them with great attention, but was blinded by prejudice; and unless He, who alone is worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the book to me, I had been blinded still."

The information supplied respecting John Cowper by preceding biographers is brief and scanty. The following are the particulars which the Editor has succeeded in obtaining. John Cowper was considered to be one of the best scholars in the university of Cambridge. In 1759 he obtained the Chancellor's gold medal, and in 1762 gained both the prizes for Masters of Arts. He was subsequently elected Fellow of Bennet, and became private tutor to to Lord Walsingham. He translated the four first books of the Henriade; his brother William, it is said, the four next (Hayley states two cantos only, and alleges Cowper's own authority for the fact); E. B. Greene, Esq., a relative of Dr. Greene, the master of the college,[770] the ninth, and Robert Lloyd the tenth book. It appeared in Smollett's edition, in 1762, but the writer has not been able to procure a copy. He afterwards engaged in an edition of Apollonius Rhodius,[771] when his sedentary and studious habits produced an imposthume in the liver, which brought him to his grave in the thirty-third year of his age. He was buried at Foxton in Cambridgeshire, of which place he was rector.

[770] He was afterwards Bishop of Lincoln.

[771] The subject of this poem is the Argonautic expedition under Jason.

Dr. Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, in a letter addressed to Dr. Parr, bears the following honourable testimony to his merits.

"TO THE REV. DR. PARR.

"Emanuel College, April 18, 1770.

"We have lost the best classic and most liberal thinker in our university, Cowper of Ben'et. He sat so long at his studies, that the posture gave rise to an abscess in his liver, and he fell a victim to learning. The goddess has so few votaries here, that she resolved to take the best offering we had, and she employed Apollonius Rhodius to strike the blow. I write the author again, Apollonius Rhodius. Cowper had laboured hard at an edition of him for several years, and applied so much to his favourite author, that it cost his life. I shall make a bold push for his papers. Yet, what omens I have! Melancthon did but think of a translation, and he died. Hoeltzlinus owns he wrote the latter part of the annotations, manu lassissimâ et corpore imbecillo, and died before he put the last hand to them. Cowper collates all the editions, makes a new translation, and follows his predecessors. One would think that by some unknown fate, or by some curse of his master, Callimachus, our poet was doomed to remain in obscurity. His enemies may say, that the dulness of his verses bears some resemblance to the torpedo, and benumbs or kills whatever touches it."--_See Dr. Parr's Works_, vol. vii. p. 75.

* * * * *

The following elegy was also composed in honour of his memory by one of his fellow collegians, which evinces the high sense entertained of his character and classical attainments.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN COWPER, OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, BY A FELLOW COLLEGIAN.

Where art thou, Moschus, and where are we all? Thou from high Helicon's muse-haunted hill Advanc'd to Sion's mount celestial: Encumber'd we with earth and sorrow still.

Before the throne thy golden lyre is strung, Seraphic descant fills thy raptur'd mind: On Camus' willows pale our harps are hung; Our footsteps linger on his banks behind.

The chosen Lawgiver from Pisgah's hill, His wond'ring eyes around in transport threw: On earthly Canaan having gaz'd his fill, To heavenly Canaan's glories quick withdrew.

So, nurst in sacred and in classic lore, With varied science at its fountain fraught, From human knowledge to th' exhaustless store Of heaven he stole to taste the fuller draught.

What boots the beauty of the classic page, And what philosophy's sublimer rule, What all th' advances of maturing age, If dies the wise man as departs the fool?

Master of Greece's thundering eloquence, The force of Roman grace to him was known; The well-turn'd period, join'd with manly sense: Sage criticism mark'd him for her own.

Ah! what avails the power of harmony, The poet's melody, the critic's skill! The verse may live, yet must the maker die; Such is stern Atropos's solemn will.

Sweet bard of Rhodes,[772] bright star of Egypt's court, Whom Ptolemy's discerning bounty drew To guard fair science in the learn'd resort, Thy muse alone can pay the tribute due.

Thy muse, that paints Medea's frantic love, And all the transports of the enamour'd maid, Who dared each strongest obstacle remove, Her reason and her art by love betray'd.

While hardy Jason ploughs old Ocean's plain, First of the Greeks to tempt Barbarian seas, With him we share the dangers of the main, Nor dread the crash of the Symplegades.

Vain wish! thy deathless heroes should commend Thy verse to fame, and bid it sweeter sound. He who thy name's revival did intend, In bloom of youth is buried under ground.[773]

So, nested on the rock, the parent dove Sees down the cleft her callow offspring fall; Full little may its chirping plaints behove; She only hears, but cannot help its call.[774]

Like the fair swan of fame, the grateful muse Assiduous tends on Lethe's barren bank, To raise the name that envious time would lose, Where many millions erst for ever sank.

While yet I wait, thou ever-honour'd shade, Some better bard should the memorial rear, The debt to friendship due by me be paid, Weak in poetic fire, in friendship's zeal sincere.

[772] Apollonius Rhodius. He had the charge of the celebrated library at Alexandria, in the time of Ptolemy.

[773] John Cowper.

[774] The idea in this stanza is taken from the 4th book of Apollonius, line 1298.

* * * * *

We add the letter addressed by Cowper to his friend Mr. Unwin on this occasion.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.

March 31, 1770.

My dear Friend,--I am glad that the Lord made you a fellow labourer with us in praying my dear brother out of darkness into light. It was a blessed work; and when it shall be your turn to die in the Lord, and to rest from all your labours, that work shall follow you. I once entertained hopes of his recovery: from the moment when it pleased God to give him light in his soul, there was, for four days, such a visible amendment in his body as surprised us all. Dr. Glynn himself was puzzled, and began to think that all his threatening conjectures would fail of their accomplishment. I am well satisfied that it was thus ordered, not for his own sake, but for the sake of us, who had been so deeply concerned for his spiritual welfare, that he might be able to give such evident proof of the work of God upon his soul as should leave no doubt behind it. As to his friends at Cambridge, they knew nothing of the matter. He never spoke of these things but to myself; nor to me, when others were within hearing, except that he sometimes would speak in the presence of the nurse. He knew well to make the distinction between those who could understand him and those who could not; and that he was not in circumstances to maintain such a controversy as a declaration of his new views and sentiments would have exposed him to. Just after his death, I spoke of this change to a dear friend of his, a fellow of the college, who had attended him through all his sickness with assiduity and tenderness. But he did not understand me.

I now proceed to mention such particulars as I can recollect; and which I had not opportunity to insert in my letters to Olney; for I left Cambridge suddenly, and sooner than I expected. He was deeply impressed with a sense of the difficulties he should have to encounter, if it should please God to raise him again. He saw the necessity of being faithful, and the opposition he should expose himself to by being so. Under the weight of these thoughts, he one day broke out in the following prayer, when only myself was with him. "O Lord, thou art light; and in thee is no darkness at all. Thou art the fountain of all wisdom, and it is essential to thee to be good and gracious. I am a child; O Lord, teach me how I shall conduct myself! Give me the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove! Bless the souls thou hast committed to the care of thy helpless miserable creature, who has no wisdom or knowledge of his own, and make me faithful to them, for thy mercy's sake!" Another time he said, "How wonderful it is, that God should look upon man; and how much more wonderful that he should look upon such a worm as I am! Yet he does look upon me, and takes the exactest notice of all my sufferings. He is present, and I see him (I mean, by faith), and he stretches out his arms towards me,"--and he then stretched out his own--"and he says, 'Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest!'" He smiled and wept, when he spoke these words. When he expressed himself upon these subjects, there was a weight and dignity in his manner such as I never saw before. He spoke with the greatest deliberation, making a pause at the end of every sentence; and there was something in his air and in the tone of his voice inexpressibly solemn, unlike himself, unlike what I had ever seen in another.

This had God wrought. I have praised him for his marvellous act, and have felt a joy of heart upon the subject of my brother's death, such as I never felt but in my own conversion. He is now before the throne; and yet a little while and we shall meet, never more to be divided. Yours, my very dear friend, with my affectionate respects to yourself and yours,

W. C.

Postscript.--A day or two before his death, he grew so weak and was so very ill, that he required continual attendance, so that he had neither strength nor opportunity to say much to me. Only the day before, he said he had had a sleepless, but a composed and quiet night. I asked him, if he had been able to collect his thoughts. He replied, "All night long I have endeavoured to think upon God and to continue in prayer. I had great peace and comfort; and what comfort I had came in that way." When I saw him the next morning at seven o'clock he was dying, fast asleep, and exempted, in all appearance, from the sense of those pangs which accompany dissolution. I shall be glad to hear from you, my dear friend, when you can find time to write, and are so inclined. The death of my beloved brother teems with many useful lessons. May God seal the instruction upon our hearts!

* * * * *

Besides the documents already inserted, Cowper translated the narrative of Mr. Van Lier, a minister of the Reformed Church, at the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Van Lier was born in Holland, in the year 1764; his mother was pious, and brought him up in the principles of true religion, endeavouring from his early youth to direct his mind to the ministry. After the usual course of education, he entered at the University, where, though he did not neglect his studies, he forgot his God. His talents seem to have been considerable, his imagination ardent, but his passions not under sufficient control; and, with all the elements that might have formed a great character, by the misapplication of his time, opportunities, and faculties, he became vicious, and subsequently a sceptic. God, in mercy, exercised him with a series of trials, but the impression was always ultimately effaced--till at length the blow reached him which lacerated his heart, extinguished all his hopes of earthly happiness, and thus finally brought him to God. Among the excellent books that contributed to dispel his errors, he specified the "Cardiphonia" of Newton with grateful acknowledgment. It is justly considered the best of all his works, and has been made eminently useful. Mr. Van Lier subsequently wrote a narrative, in Latin, containing an account of his conversion, and of all the remarkable events of his life. This narrative he addressed to Newton, at whose request it was translated by Cowper. It was published under the title of "The Power of Grace illustrated." Interesting as are its contents, yet, as they comprise nearly two hundred pages, we find it impossible to allow space for its insertion, though it is well entitled to appear in a separate form.

He concludes his narrative in these words: "O happy and glorious hour, when I shall be delivered from all trouble and sin, from this body of death, from the wicked world, and from the snares of Satan! when I shall appear before my Saviour without spot, and shall so behold his glory, and be filled with his presence, as to be wholly and for ever engaged in adoration, admiration, gratitude, and love!"

* * * * *

As we are now drawing towards the conclusion of this undertaking, some reference is due to names once honoured by Cowper's friendship, and perpetuated in his works. A distinguished place is due to the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin. His death has been recorded in a former volume, as well as his burial in the cathedral at Winchester. A Latin epitaph was composed on this occasion by Cowper, but objected to by a relative of the family, because it adverted to his mother's early prayers that God might incline his heart to the ministry. We subjoin the epitaph which replaced the pious and classical composition of Cowper.

IN MEMORY OF THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN, M.A. RECTOR OF STOCK, IN ESSEX.

He was educated at the Charter-house, in London, under the Rev. Dr. Crusius; and, having gone through the education of that school, he was at an early period admitted to Christ's College, Cambridge. He died in this city, the 29th of Nov. 1786, aged forty-one years, leaving a widow and three young children.

(The above is on a flat stone in the cathedral.)

* * * * *

And is this the memorial of the interesting and pious Unwin? Shall no monumental tablet record that he was "the endeared and valued friend of Cowper?" We have seldom seen so cold and _jejune_ an epitaph to commemorate a man distinguished by so many virtues, and associated with such interesting recollections. We are happy in being enabled to furnish a testimony more worthy of him in the following letter, addressed by Cowper to the present Lord Carrington.

TO ROBERT SMITH, ESQ.[775]

[775] Afterwards created Lord Carrington.

Weston-Underwood, near Olney, Dec. 9, 1786.

My dear Sir,--We have indeed suffered a great loss by the death of our friend Unwin; and the shock that attended it was the more severe, as till within a few hours of his decease there seemed to be no very alarming symptoms. All the account that we received from Mr. Henry Thornton, who acted like a true friend on the occasion, and with a tenderness toward all concerned that does him great honour, encouraged our hopes of his recovery; and Mrs. Unwin herself found him on her arrival at Winchester so cheerful, and in appearance so likely to live, that her letter also seemed to promise us all that we could wish on the subject. But an unexpected turn in his distemper, which suddenly seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and deprived us almost immediately of a man whom we must ever regret. His mind having been from his infancy deeply tinctured with religious sentiments, he was always impressed with a sense of the importance of the great change of all; and, on former occasions, when at any time he found himself indisposed, was consequently subject to distressing alarms and apprehensions. But in this last instance his mind was from the first composed and easy; his fears were taken away, and succeeded by such a resignation as warrants us in saying, "that God made all his bed in his sickness." I believe it is always thus, where the heart, though upright toward God, as Unwin's assuredly was, is yet troubled with the fear of death. When death indeed comes, he is either welcome, or at least has lost his sting.

I have known many such instances, and his mother, from the moment that she learned with what tranquillity he was favoured in his last illness, for that very reason expected it would be his last. Yet not with so much certainty, but that the favourable accounts of him at length, in a great measure, superseded that persuasion.

She begs me to assure you, my dear sir, how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the kindness of your inquiries. She suffers this stroke, not with more patience and submission than expected, for I never knew her hurried by any affliction into the loss of either, but in appearance at least, and at present, with less injury to health than I apprehended. She observed to me, after reading your kind letter, that, though it was a proof of the greatness of her loss, yet it afforded her pleasure, though a melancholy one, to see how much her son had been loved and valued by such a person as yourself.

Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law, to invite her and the family hither, hoping that a change of scene, and a situation so pleasant as this, may be of service to her, but we have not yet received her answer. I have good hope, however, that, great as her affliction must be, she will yet be able to support it, for she well knows whither to resort for consolation.

The virtues and amiable qualities of our friends are the things for which we most wish to keep them; but they are, on the other hand, the very things that in particular ought to reconcile us to their departure. We find ourselves sometimes connected with, and engaged in affection, too, to a person of whose readiness and fitness for another life we cannot have the highest opinion. The death of such men has a bitterness in it, both to themselves and survivors, which, thank God! is not to be found in the death of Unwin.

I know, my dear sir, how much you valued him, and I know also, how much he valued you. With respect to him, all is well; and of you, if I should survive you, which perhaps, is not very probable, I shall say the same.

In the meantime, believe me, with the warmest wishes for your health and happiness, and with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects,

Yours, my dear sir, Most faithfully, W. C.

* * * * *

Joseph Hill, Esq., survived Cowper many years, and lived to an advanced age. He formerly resided in Great Queen Street, and afterwards in Saville Row, and was eminent in his profession. His widow survived him, and died in the year 1824. The letters addressed to him by Cowper were arranged by Dr. Johnson, and ornamented with a suitable binding. They were finally left as an heir-loom at Wargrave, near Henley. Joseph Jekyll, Esq., the barrister, once celebrated for his wit and humour, succeeded to that property, and still survives at the moment in which we are writing.

Samuel Rose, Esq., after a comparatively short career of professional eminence, was seized with a rheumatic fever, which he caught at Horsham, in attending the Sussex sessions, in 1804. He died in the thirty-eighth year of his age, declaring to those around him, "I have lived long enough to review my grounds for confidence, and I have unspeakable comfort in assuring those I love that I am daily more reconciled in leaving the world now than at a later period."

Cowper's sentiments of him are expressed in the following letter.

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 2, 1788.

My dear Friend,--I told you lately, that I had an ambition to introduce to your acquaintance my valuable friend, Mr. Rose. He is now before you. You will find him a person of genteel manners and agreeable conversation. As to his other virtues and good qualities, which are many, and such as are not often found in men of his years, I consign them over to your own discernment, perfectly sure, that none of them will escape you. I give you joy of each other, and remain, my dear old friend, most truly yours,

W. C.

* * * * *

In recalling the name of Lady Austen, it is sufficient to entitle her to grateful remembrance, that it is to her we are indebted for the first suggestion of the poem of "The Task," that lasting monument of the fame of Cowper. It has also been recorded that she subsequently furnished the materials for the story of John Gilpin.

Her maiden name was Richardson; she was married very early in life to Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in France, where he died. After this event, she lived with her sister Mrs. Jones, the wife of the Rev. Mr. Jones, minister of Clifton, near Olney. It was thus that her intercourse commenced with Cowper. In a subsequent period, she was married to a native of France, M. de Tardif, a gentleman, and a poet, who has expressed, in some elegant French verses, his just and deep sense of her accomplished, endearing character. In visiting Paris with him in the course of the summer of 1802, she sank under the fatigue of the excursion, and died in that city on the 12th of August. It is due to the memory of this lady to rescue her name from a surmise injurious to her sincerity and honour; and the Editor rejoices that he possesses the means of affording her, what he conceives to be an ample justification. In the published correspondence of the late respected Alexander Knox, Esq., a doubt is expressed how far she is not chargeable with endeavouring to supplant Mrs. Unwin in the affections of Cowper. It is already recorded that a breach occurred between the two ladies, and that the poet, with a sensitiveness and delicacy that reflect the highest credit on his feelings and judgment, relinquished the society of Lady Austen from that period. They never met again. There is no direct charge conveyed by Mr. Knox, but there is evidently expressed the language of doubt and surmise. Local impressions are often the best interpretation of questionable occurrences. With this view the Editor has endeavoured to trace the nature of the rupture, on the spot, by a communication with surviving parties. From these sources of inquiry it appears that Lady Austen was a woman of great wit and vivacity, and possessed the power of exciting much interest by her manner and conversation--that Mrs. Unwin, who was of a more sedate and quiet character, seeing the ascendency that Lady Austen thus acquired, became jealous, and that a rupture was the consequence. Mr. Andrews, an intelligent inhabitant of Olney, who is my informant, assured me that such was the substance of the case, and that the rest was mere surmise and conjecture. On my asking him whether he knew the impressions on Mr. Scott's mind with regard to this event, he added, "that he himself asked Mr. Scott the question, and that his reply was, 'Who can be surprised that two women should be continually in the society of one man, and quarrel sooner or later with each other?'" The blunt and honest reply of Mr. Scott we apprehend to be the best commentary on the transaction. There may be jealousies in friendship as well as in love; and the possibility of female rivalship is sufficient to account for the rupture, without the intervention of either friendship or love.

From Mrs. Livius, of Bedford, formerly Miss Barham,[776] and intimate with Newton, Cowper, and Lady Austen, I learn that, though the vivacity and manner of Lady Austen weakened the belief of the depth of her personal religion, yet Mrs. Livius never entertained any doubt of its reality. Her own deep personal piety during a long life, and her just discrimination of character, are sufficient to give weight and authority to her judgment.

[776] Sister of the late Joseph Foster Barham, Esq. I cannot mention this endeared character, with whom I have the privilege of being so nearly connected, without recording my affectionate regard, and high estimation of her piety and virtues.

I take this opportunity of expressing her conviction that the loss of Lady Austen's society was a great privation to Cowper; that she both enlivened his spirits and stimulated his genius, and that the jealousy of Mrs. Unwin operated injuriously by compelling him to relinquish so innocent a source of gratification. Hayley, in some lines written on the occasion of her death, speaks of her as one who

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame; Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask, And from the mind of Cowper--call'd "The Task."

Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed in the year 1806; aged seventy-five, the poet always spoke in the language of unfeigned esteem and affection.

Sir George Throckmorton's death has been already recorded, and with this event the genius of the place may be said to have deserted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion exists no longer. His surviving estimable widow the Catharina of Cowper, resides at Northampton.

Lady Hesketh, whose affectionate kindness to the poet must have endeared her to every reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy-four.

To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already been borne in the course of this work. He was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which was the reason why he was usually designated as Cowper's _kinsman_, his mother having been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to Cowper's mother. His unremitting and watchful care over the poet, for several successive years, and during a period marked by a painful and protracted malady, his generous sacrifice of his time, and of every personal consideration, that he might administer to the peace and comfort of his afflicted friend--his affectionate sympathy, and uniform forgetfulness of self, in all the various relations of life--these virtues have justly claimed for Dr. Johnson the esteem and love of his friends, and the honourable distinction of being ever identified with the endeared name of Cowper. He was rector of the united parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the county of Norfolk, where he preached the doctrines of the gospel with fidelity, and adorned them by the Christian tenor of his life and conduct. He married Miss Livius, daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., formerly at the head of the commissariat, in India, during the government of Warren Hastings. The Editor was connected with him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, after a short illness, and was followed to the grave by a crowded assemblage of his parishioners, to whom he was endeared by his virtues. He left his estimable widow and four surviving children to lament his loss. Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his Poems minutely impressed on his memory. Both, therefore, became a frequent theme of conversation; and it is to these sources of information, that the writer is indebted for the knowledge of many facts and incidents that are incorporated in the present edition.

* * * * *

The value which Cowper attached to the esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., may be seen in the following letter. It alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. Bull on the publication of his first volume of poems.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.

March 24, 1782.

Your letter gave me great pleasure, both as a testimony of your approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing you, and such as you; and though I must confess that, at the same time, I cast a sidelong glance at the good liking of the world at large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their advantage and instruction than their praise. They are children; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honey--if my book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of true knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has procured me a proof of your esteem.

Yours, most truly, W. C.

* * * * *

Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagination. It was at his suggestion that Cowper engaged in translating the poems of Madame Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes and consolations of the Gospel, and left a son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his father's virtues.

* * * * *

Wherever men have acquired celebrity by those powers of genius with which Providence has seen fit to discriminate them, a curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter traits of person, habit, and real character. We wish to realize the portrait before our eyes, to see how far all the component parts are in harmony with each other; or whether the elevation of mind which raises them beyond the general standard is perceptible in the occurrences of common life. Tell me, said an inquirer, writing from America, what was the figure of Cowper, what the character of his countenance, the expression of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house he lived in, whether its aspect was north or south, &c. This is amusing, but it shows the power of sympathy with which we are drawn to whatever commands our admiration, and excites the emotions of esteem and love.

The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been formed with equal kindness by nature; and it may be questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection and to inspire respect.

He is said to have been handsome in his youth. His features strongly expressed the powers of his mind and all the sensibility of his heart; and even in his declining years, time seemed to have spared much of its ravages, though his mind was harassed by unceasing nervous excitement.

He was of a middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the form of his limbs; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical; in his diet temperate, and not dainty.

He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his extreme shyness sometimes produced in his manners an indescribable mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no person could be more truly graceful, when he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased with his society. Towards women, in particular, his behaviour and conversation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degree.

There was a simplicity of manner and character in Cowper which always charms, and is often the attribute of real genius. He was singularly calculated to excite emotions of esteem and love by those qualities that win confidence and inspire sympathy. In friendship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the events of life had not disappointed his fondest hopes, no man would have been more eminently adapted for the endearments of domestic life.

His daily habits of study and exercise are so minutely and agreeably delineated in his letters, that they present a perfect portrait of his domestic character.

His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw and heard him the extreme sensibility of his heart; and in reading aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchanting, winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the fourth book of "The Task."

Secluded from the world, as he had long been, he yet retained in advanced life singular talents for conversation; and his remarks were uniformly distinguished by mild and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of delicate humour, varied by solid and serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very happily described in drawing the character of a venerable friend:

Grave without dullness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise: though meek, keen-eyed; Who, when occasion justified its use, Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce; Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophy's enlightened page, His rich materials, and regale your ear With strains, it was a privilege to hear. Yet, above all, his luxury supreme, And his chief glory, was the gospel theme: Ambitious not to shine or to excel, But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

But the traits of his character are nowhere developed with happier effect than in his own writings, and especially in his poems. From these we shall make a few extracts, and suffer him to draw the portrait for himself.

His admiration of the works of Nature:

I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice Had found me, or the hope of being free, My very dreams were rural; rural too The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, Sportive and jingling her poetic bells, Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd To Nature's praises.

_Task_, book iv.

The love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind. This obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works, And all can taste them. Minds, that have been form'd And tutor'd with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none unmov'd. It is a flame that dies not even there Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth Indian with his belt or beads, Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air, The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame.